“You lived in Denver…and you moved back to Kansas City? Why?” they ask.
I could explain the situation with the job. I could talk about the car, or lack thereof, after the accident. I could say, “It was just time,” or I could go into graphic detail about how life kicked my ass and sent me limping back to my parents’ house with my tail between my legs, so now I sleep on a mattress I threw on top of the hot tub, borrow my brother’s truck to get back and forth to work, and just generally spend my days avoiding anyone I might recognize in Smithville. Which is everyone. Or, you know, I could just lie.
“It’s home,” I shrug. And they get that knowing look because most people understand what it’s like to get sucked back into a place. Continue reading